Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (4 page)

To Ruggleton’s daughter of Iero.

Abella sang the verse straight to Claire, her eyes glittering with good humor. But as she sang, a feeling of alarm crept into the room. Slyly raising her eyebrows and nodding her head, the girl piped the lyrics, “
He took a stick down off the rack, fall al lal lal lal li-do, and on the back went rickety-rack, of Ruggleton’s daughter of Iero
.”

Laughter died on Claire’s lips as the songstress raised her hands from the keys with a flourish. Had the girl just issued a warning?
Nonsense
, thought Claire. Abella was extraordinary. When she stood and bowed, Claire rose, clapping her hands together in unfettered appreciation. Flavian joined in.

“Magnificent, my Bella,” he declared as his ward swept to his side. He pulled her under his arm and kissed her cheek.

“Now you do not cry,” Abella told Claire.

“You are magic,” said Claire. “Honestly, it was as if your voice compelled me to feel every emotion. I was helpless in your spell.”

“You are sweet!” said the girl. “Oh Vav, I like her so much!” Then she laughed — a sound as pretty as the tinkling of icicles.

• • •

At supper, Claire couldn’t suppress her elation. Flavian’s ward liked her, and he seemed so much warmer now. His brooding hesitation had vanished. He and Mrs. Gower glowed like twin lanterns as Claire and Abella giggled with the gaiety of school chums. The tunes from the concert still played in Claire’s very bones.

“She has the most exceptional voice,” Claire gushed to Mrs. Gower, “and she plays on the heart as perfectly as she plays on the pianoforte.”

“What fun!” said the chaperone.

“Lord Monroe, you must sponsor a singing debut for Abella in London,” continued Claire. “The
ton
will be at her feet.”

Abella pressed her hands to her chest. “You really think this?”

“There’s not a doubt in my mind.”

“Have you any friends in London who would open their salons to the most magnificent songstress in the western world?” Claire asked Flavian, but before he could reply, a thought occurred to her. “No, don’t ask a soul.” She turned to Abella. “My sister, Ellie, married Lord Hugh Davenport last year. She says he has a marvelous house in Mayfair. What a sensation you’d make. All of London would be talking about the new Lady Davenport and her extraordinary musical find. Promise me you won’t debut anywhere else?”

Abella left her seat and wrapped her arms around Flavian’s shoulders. “Oh Vav, isn’t it
maravilloso
?” she said. “A salon in London!”

“Um hum,” Flavian put a forkful of beef into his mouth and chewed. He did not look at either of them.

Confused, Claire said, “Did you have something else in mind for her?”

He continued chewing, shaking his head, ‘no,’ but avoiding their eyes, his back stiff.

“Vav such a worrier.” The girl tickled him under the chin. “I be wonderful. I promise.”

He swallowed. “I’m sure you’ll have doors opening for you everywhere, my sweet one. It’s just your health that concerns me.”

“My health be perfect!” Abella protested. “I die here. I see no one. I do nothing all day in my loneliness. I be better if I have artist friends like me.”

“London isn’t nearly as dangerous as they say,” Claire told him, “especially for the well-to-do. It’s the children in the poorer neighborhoods who die of scarlet fever and measles. Abella will be safe with me at my sister’s home.”

“Yes,” he said. “Bella, sit down and finish your dinner.” He gently pried Abella’s arms from around his neck, and with a hand on her back, nudged her toward her seat.

“Lady Claire, tell him let me go to London. If I went with you it be
magnifico
!”

Claire winked and held a forkful of partridge aloft in silent community. Abella speared a bit of partridge as well and lifted it in a toast. They clinked meat, and together stuck the food in their mouths, chewed and swallowed.

• • •

Hours after dinner, when everyone else had gone to bed, shadows soared up the walls, exaggerating movement in the marmalade glow of a candle Flavian held as he led Claire to her room. Overjoyed with the warmth and kinship of Abella, she wanted to dance with the black shapes.

Flavian shifted the light, his shadow looming above her. The outline of the slope of his shoulder and the cut of his chin came within reach on the hallway wall. Discreetly, Claire lifted her hand and stroked the darkness. How tender, how fine the reality would be. She pictured his naked body — the glow of flesh by candle fire. A rush swept through her. “Oh,” she breathed.

“Did you bump something?” asked Flavian.

Mortified, she dropped her hand from his outline. “I’m fine. What a darling Abella is,” she added, to distract him from her involuntary moan. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a ward? She’s so talented.”

“I’m glad you’re getting on so well. She doesn’t take to people, usually.”

“She’s a charming young lady. I’m sure you’re very proud of her.”

“When I look at her … her beauty and her voice … well, she’s an extraordinary little girl.”

“She’s hardly a little girl. Why, I’d guess she’s only a few years younger than I.”

“She’s sixteen.”

“All right then, three years younger. So you must stop seeing her as a child. In fact, it’s time your songbird flew from — ”

“But Abella’s not like other girls her age.”

“No, she’s special. The refinement of her looks and talent makes her superior.”

Flavian turned, the candle blinding Claire with sudden brightness. “I hope I don’t underestimate her advantages,” he said, “but unfortunately I cannot let her go with you to London.”

Claire’s step faltered. In the stark light, the hollows of his face deepened, and the grave troubled look intensified. Still, she couldn’t help herself. His desire to keep the girl hidden seemed so unfair. “But how can she have a normal life shut away at Bingham Hall?”

“It is not as terrible as all that.” Flavian gave her a wry look.

Claire’s neck prickled with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to imply there’s anything wrong with your estate. It’s just that Abella’s artistry would guarantee her success.”

“I understand my ward. She wouldn’t thrive in London. In fact, exposing her to the city might harm her in ways you cannot comprehend.”

His stubbornness astounded her. “What am I not comprehending? You owe it to your ward to at least let her try. Her personality is fragile and excitable, I can see that, but the heart of a woman is stronger than you think.”

“And yet, she shall not go.” Flavian turned his back and continued down the hall.

Suddenly Claire didn’t like him very much. Had she been mistaken about his character? “Really, Lord Monroe, if this is about my ability to chaperone her properly … ”

“It’s not,” he said, cutting her off.

A bucket of pond water offered more warmth. The way he dismissed her and the needs of his ward made her angry. “Theater has its detractors among the
ton
, but Sarah Siddons and her brother John Kemble are welcome in the best houses. Besides, the salon of a patroness of the arts is like an altar in comparison to the stage.”

“I’m not concerned about Abella appearing in a theatrical.”

Claire halted. “What is it then?”

He whipped around, causing the candle to spit wax on the floor. “Please do not question my judgment on this.” His gaze burned with impatience.

Startled, Claire took a step back, and then she got mad. “Keeping Abella hidden is a mean and cowardly thing to do,” she said, barely controlling a tremor in her voice. “There is no reason in the world to do that to any young lady.”

Flavian hit the wall a thundering blow with his fist. “You understand nothing.”

“I understand that you are not the man I thought you were.” She brushed past him and walked swiftly down the hall. At her room, she twisted the knob and was about to open the door when a hand gripped her upper arm.

“Don’t … ” he said, “please don’t … be upset with me. I wanted to explain first, but Abella interrupted us in the garden. I thought it best to show you this in the light of day.” His fingers tore through his hair. “You will be frightened … ”

“Once I was called to the home of a tenant farmer. He’d caught his arm in the harness of a draft horse and was dragged into a tree. The arm had been torn off at the shoulder. I am not easily frightened, Lord Monroe.”

“But if it were daylight … ”

“I don’t wish to sound shrill, but for the life of me, I cannot imagine an excuse for shutting a young woman away that’s so terrifying it cannot be witnessed at night.” Wishing to end the encounter, Claire pushed open the door and started into her bedchamber.

“Then come, but consider yourself warned.”

Tethered by Flavian’s grip, Claire passed through the long corridors of Bingham Hall. She sensed the thinnest thread of gentlemanliness preventing him from dragging her. The heels of his boots resounded on the floor. Each step echoed with grim determination.

She chastised herself for putting him in this state, but heavens, what a dreadful predicament. A girl of Abella’s talents shouldn’t be concealed in a big old stone house in the country, no matter how elegant its architecture.

At last, they reached a door Claire guessed led to the crenellated tower, which jutted above the eastern wall of the house. Flavian shoved the candle into her hand and fished in his pocket for a key. Metal squealed against metal in the chamber of a padlock bolting a wooden door. As the portal swung open, she noticed grain sacking on the floor. It had been stuffed into the gap at the jam.

Flavian studied her as if searching for the slightest sign of weakness. “Let me know the minute you wish to leave.” A pang of fear rattled her, though she doused it immediately.

“Don’t worry about me, worry about your ward’s happiness.”

The line of his lips stretched in an unreadable grimace. Without answering, he yanked an immaculate handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. “Hold it to your nose if you need to.”

I’ve smelled gangrene,
she thought.
Nothing could be worse
.

Taking back the candle, Flavian drew a deep breath and plunged into the tower’s dark stairwell.

He didn’t wait for Claire. She had to feel her way in the dark. On the final turn before the landing to the third floor, she caught sight of him. In the candle’s glow, his features were cut with darkness at the ridges of cheek and jaw. He lit the wick of a mirrored sconce and light flooded the hall.

At first she couldn’t grasp what she saw, then the breath strangled in her throat.

Floor to ceiling, the area overflowed with crates, broken chairs, tattered blankets, gnawed grain sacks, and dead and dying plants. Only a small, barely visible path led through the piles. The smell of rodent feces thickened the air and coated what little she could see of the floor.

Claire felt faint. Revulsion tightened her stomach. With the handkerchief to her nose, she closed her eyes.

“It’s not what you were expecting,” Flavian said.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.” He took her hand and led her through the teetering mass. They passed ruined tables, cracked shovels, bales of moldering hay, piles of yellowed newspaper, decimated children’s toys, and a settee, propped on one end with horsehair bursting from the seat.

Her mind baulked and skittered, unable to comprehend the utter chaos. Nothing made sense. The piles were so high she couldn’t see the walls or the ceiling. Chairs hung upside down by ropes from the rafters, torn pictures stacked every which way. There was no up or down. It made her feel as if her mind had been turned inside out-broken thoughts stacked into piles of useless, crumbling memory. For the first time in her life, Claire felt truly afraid. “What’s happened here?” she asked.

Instead of answering, Flavian parted a stained bed sheet revealing a hole in the jumble. He gently took her hand and ducked into the tiny passage.

“Oh no,” she whispered, overcome with apprehension.

But Flavian didn’t — or wouldn’t — hear. He pulled her through the cave of debris into a room where the shadows seemed alive with menace. Shapes in the wavering light took on human form, shifted to animal, and then settled as the light steadied, into piles of clothes, books, shoes, and broken china. In the midst of the mess was a bed — a rat’s nest, really — with old blankets, linens, and pillows heaped in a torn, yellowed pile.

A wave of nausea rocked her. She held fast to Flavian’s hand. “Where did all this come from?”

“This is only the top floor of the tower. Two other levels packed tighter than this lie below. Abella calls it her ‘collection.’ It’s been seven years in the making; she started it when she became my ward.”

Claire swallowed. “But … but … did you know when you took her in?”

Before Flavian could respond, the pile on the bed moved. Claire backed away in horror, stumbling against a filthy mound of clothing as the heap continued to grow. The clothes separated and slid. Rats leaped from the mass and scuttled toward her. She screamed and ran toward the tunnel, but the hole had disappeared. She clawed at piles of books, which cascaded to the floor. Banks of rags shifted and flopped while more rats squealed, darting this way and that, their claws scratching the floor boards, their cries blinding her with terror.

An arm caught her waist — a warm, powerful arm. “It’s all right,” she heard Flavian say as if from a great distance. She turned into his chest, sobbing, “Get me out of here.”

He pulled her close. “I’ll take you downstairs.” The warmth of his body brought her shattered thoughts back to reason.

“Dear God,” she said, clinging to him, trying to catch her breath.

“Lady Claire, you come visit me,” Abella’s sweet voice pierced the blackness.

Claire took her face from the comforting folds of Flavian’s coat. In a spotless white nightgown, Abella sat on the filthy bed, looking like a fairy in a field of bramble. Her dark hair, loosed from pins and ribbons, fell in a black river around her flawless complexion. A happy, excited smile played on her lips.